


Alleyways

by Notsohappycamper



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence Barebone Deserves The World, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow and Soft Touching, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notsohappycamper/pseuds/Notsohappycamper
Summary: Intimate moments in the alleyways where Credence and Graves meet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating will change with time. Thanks for reading <3

It’s gotten dark out.

Dormant fear lingers in Credence’s mind, because he knows he’s past his curfew. He sees Mr. Graves, though, and that pushes all the fear and guilt and anger to the back of his mind, at least for now.

The older man is leaning against a stone wall with his hands in the pockets of his black overcoat, and his head is tilted back to rest on the wall. Shoulders relaxed. One leg crossed over the other.

He looks so cool. So smart. Credence feels pulled to him as if by a rope around his waist.

Graves offers him a glance, then goes back to resting his head on the wall, staring at the brick opposite him. No words are spoken. Credence steps closer, until the walls of the tall buildings Graves is standing in between close comfortably around him as well.

His eyes are restless, skittering from Graves’ black shoes to the curve of his waist through his coat, the swell of his arms, his chest, the line of his jaw, the gray and black of his hair. He’s shrouded in darkness. Though, standing beyond the street lamps, so is Credence now.

He steps closer still, deciding to approach either until Graves moves to address him or until he has invaded his personal space. Graves doesn’t turn to address him once, so Credence steps close and inhales the rich scent of him.

“Hello,” he greets, awkward, testing the waters. His voice is small.

Graves’ eyes are dark and oppressive when they settle on him again, and he can’t help but avert his gaze down to the pavement beneath their feet. Finally, _finally_ , Graves pushes himself from the wall and faces him, hands leaving his pockets.

“Hello, Credence.”

A hand raises to touch his cheek without his permission. That’s okay, Credence thinks, tilting his head to give a better view of his face. Graves always has his permission.

“This bruise here.” He’s speaking. Credence reminds himself to listen, not just to the deep ebbs and flows of his gentle tone, but to the words themselves. The sound of his voice works its way into Credence’s chest and settles there, heavy and hot. “Did she do this?”

He nods without thinking, then opens his eyes. They’d fallen closed to the slow, gentle caress on his cool skin.

Graves gives him a half-smile, a hint of something loving-but-not-quite, before a whisper of magic smooths over the bruise and takes it away. It leaves an odd feeling in its wake, instantly warmed by the rough pads of fingers.

“Better now?”

His tone is light, as if they’re sharing jokes like schoolyard children. Credence tilts his head down, leans a little closer, and whispers, “Yes.”

There came a time, a few days ago, maybe a week, maybe a few of those, when Graves stopped meeting him only when he wanted to address the Obscurus. Every three days became every other day, which became every single day. Regardless of what Credence had or hadn’t found, how close he’d gotten to “the child”, every day Graves would be waiting for him in one of the spots he’d been assigned to hand out pamphlets at. He’d do his rounds, and, by the end of his circuit, on the corner of a street close to the Church, Graves would be standing, still and calm, as the setting sun painted the world around him and drove him into darkness.

Every day he would be there, and sometimes they wouldn’t even speak of Credence’s duties. Sometimes Graves would ask him how his day was, or tell him about his own, or even make small talk about something unrelated, and Credence could pretend for just a while that he had one normal, meaningful relationship in his life.

Some days, like today, Graves didn’t seem to want to talk about anything at all. Some days, they would just stand in the lulling silence and listen to automobiles pass by in the nearby street. Some days, Graves would just touch his skin, or pull him close, or both, and Credence would close his eyes and suck it up like a dying man, until Graves pulled away and bid him goodnight.

Even now, as Graves’ hand is leaving his once bruised cheek, his other hand is reaching for his wrist, gripping it before trailing up the arm, over the shoulder, curling around the back of his neck.

He takes it upon himself to step closer and lean his forehead onto Graves’ collar, wordlessly requesting what the man seems more than ready to give. The hand stays on his neck, but an arm comes up to hold him about the waist and wrap him in a loose hug. It’s solid and grounding.

“Are you tired?”

He considers the question, breathing deeply against the skin on Graves’ neck.

“Maybe,” he ends up mumbling, ever unsure.

“Rest with me for a bit,” Graves says. Fingers stroke the small hairs at the back of his neck. “And then, when we wake, I’ll ask you again.”

His manner of speaking is suddenly so odd, almost surreal, but Credence tries not to let that bother him. Even if it almost feels like he’s being spoken to by another man entirely. By a stranger.

“You’re a good boy,” Graves whispers next, and Credence catches himself before he sighs audibly, deep in his throat. “A model student. You will go far, Credence. I will make sure of that.”

Everything is soft and slow and warm. Graves’ arms are like a second home. A _real_ home. He truly feels like he’s curled up in bed, in a place of safety and bliss. He vaguely wonders if he has died in his sleep and is floating through heaven right now.

“Why...” he starts, then pauses. Hesitates. “Why am I.. special?” _To you_. The words are left unsaid.

Instead of answering, Graves’ hand, the one on his neck, rubs across his skin once, then dips below the collar of his shirt and strokes the top of his shoulder blade. He shudders against his will. As if unsatisfied, that hand leaves quickly and instead worms in between their embrace, venturing into his open coat, plucking up his tucked shirt, and then delving back against his bare skin, now journeying along the small of his back.

“Oh, Credence.” The words are tutted. He feels the soul-deep burn of a stupid child having asked a stupid question. “We’ve been over this already. You’re the only one who can befriend the child I need.”

“Yes,” he grits out, his body twitching with his discomfort. Graves’ hand beneath his shirt, trailing along the waistband of his pants, does little to calm him. “I’m sorry, sir.”

He realizes that he’s been keeping his arms by his sides this whole time, reluctant to return the embrace, but now that he is thinking about it, now that his attention is on his own body, he feels hopelessly ridiculous and lost on where to put his hands. They start to shake by his sides, and he curls them into fists, undone by his own weakness.

In response, Graves tenses against him, and he knows it’s his fault. It’s all his fault.

Just as he’s mentally beating himself up over ruining everything, waiting for the man to pull away and say goodnight, both of Graves’ hands grip his wrists. The man’s body is still pressed against him, but it pushes now, with real pressure, and forces him back against the wall. Graves pins his wrists there, pressing their chests together. Credence can feel the damp warmth of his breath against the shell of his ear, and shivers.

“Keep telling me you’re sorry,” Grave nearly hisses. Credence’s heart leaps in his chest, and he’s about to blurt it out as many times as Graves wants him to, but he is cut off before he can start. “Keep telling the whole world you’re sorry, and you’ll never get anywhere in life.”

Oh, Credence thinks. He’s being corrected.

It’s hard to think. His heart is racing, and his body is hot. It’s hard to breathe, hard to think, when he can feel every one of Graves’ breaths move against his own chest. For a second, only a mere second, he wishes they weren’t wearing shirts, and berates himself so badly that if he dared to think such a thing again, he would spend days wallowing and hating himself for his sins.

“Never be _sorry_ ,” Graves continues. He sounds serious and harsh. He sounds personal. “Never go back on your own beliefs for anyone, no matter what they try to do to you. No matter how hard they try to stop you. Never be _sorry_ , Credence. Only be true.”

“True?” he whispers, utterly breathless, his lips curling around the word like a kiss.

“Mmm,” Graves just hums.

Though he is uncomfortable, though he feels he is dying and can’t breathe properly, somehow, it still feels like home here. Graves’ body still feels like bliss.

“You don’t deserve the lashes she gives you. You don’t deserve to hurt. My special boy.”

Credence doesn’t know what to say to that. Graves’ body moves against his again, presses hard against his chest, his hips, his thighs, as the man inhales deeply, sandwiching him against the wall. Then he relaxes and pulls back, and that sensation of drowning goes with him. He still holds Credence’s wrists, though, standing close with his head bent down, like they’re lovers trying to hide from the rain.

Credence looks down, too, and wants to stomp on his own foot for that thought.

“I have something for you, love,” Graves breathes.

Credence quakes, wide-eyed.

It’s almost as if he read his mind. Knows the burden of his guilt and wants to help him shoulder it. God. He really can count on Mr. Graves to fix everything.

“Y-yes, sir...” His teeth chatter, and his tongue is heavy like it’s made of lead, or maybe gold, but Graves moves anyway, releasing one of his wrists to dig into his pocket and pull out a small black box.

Credence sways on his feet.

“I saw this through the window of a store, and I thought of you.” His other hand lets go of Credence’s wrist, and the boy feels like he could topple at any moment, a thin tree standing on its last legs. “It reminded me of how _strong_ you are, Credence. Of how brave and courageous you’re being. What everyone will endlessly praise you for once our mission is complete.”

“Ye-Yes- Yes, sir...”

“Yes,” Graves repeats, but when he says it, it sounds like a steady murmur from the lips of an angel.

When he opens the box, Credence sees a small black ring inside, engraved with a lining of silver. It shines in the moonlight, the edges of it catching his eye and the blackness of the middle sucking him in.

For the second time within the hour, he wonders if he has died.

Maybe his body has just given out, and he is laying upon his mattress right now, not breathing, not moving, having died in his sleep from exhaustion and festering wounds. He imagines how his mother would ask for someone to take him away immediately, if only to get the pathetic, disgusting body from her sights. His sisters might cry, _might_ , but it wouldn’t last long until they got back to their duties and forgot all about him.

He wonders if Mr. Graves would cry.

This fantasy about his own death is whisked away as Graves takes his right hand, delicately, fingers stroking his knuckles briefly then sliding the ring onto his ring finger. It’s a perfect fit. It looks dark and powerful, black and silver against his pale, pale skin.

His lips struggle to form a sentence.

“I- Mr. Graves... I can’t. If my Ma sees, she’ll-”

“Shhh.”

Graves pulls his wand from his jacket and taps it at the air once before replacing it. Credence watches in rapt confusion, until Graves takes his hand again and holds it up, stooping to press his lips to his new ring. Or, where his new ring would be, if it wasn’t now invisible.

Credence clearly still feels the weight of it on his finger, feels the cool metal shift slightly as he moves his hand, but, to his eyes, it’s as if his finger is completely bare.

Something in him stretches, twists and swirls, a storm of particles that all move as one, that press collectively against the hollow of his chest, work in between his ribs, and seep into the arteries of his heart. This force, this thing, stretches and yawns.

“What if I lose it?” he blurts out, because that would terrible, to lose something so precious. Something given to him by someone so special.

Graves’ fingers are still smoothing over his own, playing with the ring neither of them can see. He twirls it around and around.

“This was for you, Credence, not me. If it’s misplaced, I’ll just get you another one. A better one.” His voice is playful and soft. Credence wants to be dipped in it like it’s holy water. “And if you keep losing them, then I’ll keep replacing them. And each one will be more beautiful then the last.”

 _Lose it_ , Credence’s mind screams, before he can stop himself. _Tuck it away safely and tell him it was an accident_.

He pictures himself in a pile of them, all invisible, all cool to the touch and heavy with the weight of their precious metal, all hand-picked by his savior, all carrying his loosely-strung lies.

How selfish of him. How terrible.

Graves is smiling lightly, his eyes half-lidded and understanding, like he _knows_. He leans forward, invading personal space again, always, and presses his lips to Credence’s cheek.

“You really are something else,” he whispers there. “One of a kind.”

Credence closes his eyes, and finally, _finally_ , moves.

He reaches out and feels the fabric of Graves’ jacket, grips it then lets it go. His fingertips trail over the material and around to his back, where he rests his hands, but does not push, does not pull. Graves seems to get the message and shifts closer, but does not push either. He wants Credence to.

 _How strong you are. How brave and courageous you’re being_.

Credence shuts his eyes as tight as he can and _pulls_.

He stumbles back against the wall, but Graves catches him with an arm around his waist, and they stand in the darkness and breathe against one another until the world slows and stills around them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More, sings the choir, more. Thank you for reading <3

He is turning in slow circles under gray clouds, trying to look around as discreetly as possible.

A man in a blue coat holding an umbrella walks by the alley and glances, then looks away as if he had just spied a stray cat and not a grown man standing and shivering out in the heavy rain.

Credence is a few minutes away from just giving up and heading home, knowing that if he returns sniffling and sneezing, his mother will blame him for his own carelessness, and punishment will be dealt. Rain sticks his hair to his forehead and has already soaked his clothes, but he stands and waits all the same, mind running through possible excuses.

He could just be busy today. He’s an important man, after all. Not like Credence, who has the time and desperation to stand out in the rain and wait for someone who is most likely not going to show up. Credence has all the patience in the world, because he’s been raised to. He’s used to not getting his way, not getting what he wants, and so he’s used to being motionless and disappointed. Waiting. Waiting for something that will never come. Something that he doesn’t and will never deserve to have.

He feels for the invisible ring on his right hand and runs an index finger over its smooth shape for comfort.

Just a bit longer, he decides, shivering and balling his hands to keep his fingers warm. He glances behind him once, just to be sure, then looks to the ground, tempted to slip down the wall and sit on the cold, wet pavement. His feet hurt. His body and something in his chest aches. Something in his chest swells, and grows, and grows, and churns.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He’s too ashamed to look up when he hears his voice.

The man steps right up to Credence, his shoes clicking neatly on the stone, and, when he’s close enough, it feels as if his very presence makes the clouds part and the rain stop. In fact, Credence doesn’t feel rainwater beating down on his body anymore, matting his hair and seeping into his clothes. A breeze blows by and chills him, but the rain leaves him untouched, like Mr. Graves has produced a miracle. Credence wouldn’t put it past him.

“Credence, I asked you a question.”

He looks up at the tone. It sounds familiar, in the way that anything accusatory and scolding sounds familiar to him. He knows just what to say.

“I’m.. so-” He speaks slowly and almost under his breath, so it’s easy to stop himself. Wait. Don’t apologize. You’ll never get anywhere in life.

Without the apology, though, he doesn’t know what else he could possibly say, so he doesn’t say anything at all. In the silence, Graves shifts on his feet and sighs, heavy and weary. Credence is aware that it’s his fault, but he’s a little too cold and tired and weary himself to care right now.

“Hey,” Graves beckons, softer this time. He crooks a finger under Credence’s chin and forces his head up.

He’s not a miracle-worker at all, Credence sees. No more rain falls over his head because Graves is holding an umbrella over the both of them. It’s big and clear, sprouting from what looks to be his wand.

“Why are you out here in the rain? What were you thinking?”

Credence meets his eyes then looks away quickly. He thinks the answer to that is obvious.

“Come here.”

Graves moves to take his arm, but Credence reaches out and places a hand over the man’s larger one on the handle of the umbrella. He grabs it tight and runs his fingers over the soft skin there, shaking his head once, still looking away.

Graves stills, resting a hand on Credence’s bicep and staring hard, like he’s trying to look into his soul. Another deep sigh is huffed from his chest.

“Don’t be difficult, Credence. You’ll get sick. You probably already are.”

 _If I am, I deserve it_.

“You were waiting for me... I’m sorry I couldn’t be here on time. I was dealing with an issue at work. You understand, don’t you. Love?”

Graves cups his face and passes a thumb across his cheekbone, leaning down to look right into his eyes, and just like that, with a glance up into the dark, dark eyes of the older man leaning into his space and holding an umbrella over their heads, just like that, Credence feels as if the ground beneath him is crumbling away.

The tiny seed of anger and betrayal he held not only moments ago is forgotten, and now all he can focus on is the smell of his clothing, the warmth of the hand on his cheek, the way Graves is smiling, just slightly, always just slightly, and blinking slowly. Credence blinks slowly back.

“You’re cold. Shall we head inside?”

“I-inside where?” His voice shakes, betraying just how cold he really is.

“To my home.”

A refusal is instantly on his lips. He couldn’t possibly go to Mr. Graves’ home, being the peasant that he is. Him, in the house of someone who is a powerful wizard and head and director of a magical department?

“The sun is setting,” Graves reminds, patting his cheek before linking their arms. He tugs so Credence is standing up straighter. “It’s only going to get colder out. Let’s take a little shortcut instead of walking.”

“No!” Credence blurts out, his own panic getting the best of him. It’s just too big of an offer. He’d be such an inconvenience, and he _can’t_ be; not to Mr. Graves. Never to Mr. Graves. He knows he’s a disappointment to many people in his life and is fine with that, but to Mr. Graves... He’s his only friend. He’s _different_. “No. I should go home soon... Thank you for the offer. And for meeting me here.”

“Are you sure?” Graves asks after a long moment of silence. Their arms are still linked, but he moves away now, in order to face the younger man.

He looks more sour than concerned, more like a child watching his favorite sweet get pulled away right from beneath his fingertips. In his eyes lurks a primal darkness that Credence cannot understand. Not yet.

“Yes, Mr. Graves. Thank you,” he mutters, lowering his head, feeling even worse now at refusing the kind offer.

It seems no matter what he does, he will always be a failure. He will always disappoint people. He can never do anything right. It’s impossible; he’s incapable of it. He’s been a disappointment from the day he was born, and he will never stop completely ruining anything that touches him, anything that has the misfortune of-

Graves leans down and kisses him right on the lips. He sees it before he feels it, because his eyes are wide open. All at once, he’s so close, and it’s so overwhelming, and, _oh_...

He sighs out through his nose and lets his head be tilted back by the hand on his jaw, closing his eyes and falling away. He feels like he’s floating, like his whole body is full of air, and yet he’s absolutely breathless. It’s so cold out, but his lips are so, so warm, being slowly moved against, gently caressed and massaged.

Graves curls an arm around him and tugs him closer, digging the end of his wand into his back, while Credence gasps and shudders and tries to stay grounded in some, in any, way. He reaches out for something to hold and catches the ends of the gray scarf around Graves’ neck, pulling on it hard with both hands, not realizing that such an action with only bring them closer. It’s only when the pressure on his lips grows more fervent, when Graves makes a deep, eager noise in the back of his throat, and when a leg moves to press between his thighs, does Credence realize what his trembling hands are holding onto. Even then, he doesn’t let go.

Graves leans back so they can catch their breath, but Credence lurches forward and pants hard against his mouth, wanting.. wanting _something_. He can’t bear to think it.

“This is a sin,” he whispers, desperate to be heard by God, blinking fast and feeling like he’s about to burst at the seams. A wizard. He kissed a wizard. He physically acted out upon his hidden attractions to a person cursed with magic. Everything his adoptive mother taught him, everything that was beaten into his skin every day of his life, everything they preached about at the Church; he’d just destroyed it all within a single moment. “This is a sin..! This is...”

Graves’ lips touch his when he speaks, still lingering close. His voice is low and amorous, yet teasing. “Really? Does it feel like a sin to you, Credence?”

“Yes...”

The air is frigid, but his body is so warm. The body pressed against his is burning.

“Do you like it?”

Credence inhales, and when he breathes out, Graves swallows it whole.

“Yes...” he whispers in shame, unable to lie.

The soft lips against his mouth curl into a winning smile.


End file.
